Perfect in the Bird
by Berne
Summary: A series of nine birdthemed doubledrabbles centred around Jack Sparrow. Featured characters include Giselle, Anamaria, Will, Gibbs, Cotton, Elizabeth, Ragetti and Barbossa.


**Title:** Perfect in the Bird

**Author:** Berne

**Rating: **PG

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Gore Verbinski, Ted Elliot, and Terry Rossio, various studios including but not limited to First Mate Productions Inc., Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Walt Disney Pictures. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Feedback:** Very much appreciated.

**AN:** Love to Ociwen and Watersword for betaing.

**Summary:** A series of bird-themed not-quite-drabbles centred around Jack Sparrow. Characters include Giselle, Anamaria, Gibbs, Cotton, Elizabeth, Will, Barbossa, Ragetti and Norrington.

**i. a beautiful feather crown, mysterious-eyed feathers**

He glittered like a whore, throwing sly, sluttish looks across the tavern. Attention-capturing, always that, and Giselle would often hate him for it, hate that every person within a league would orient to his presence as he spun webs of what could only be lies: tales of age-old legends and fantastical creatures which could never exist. A peacock in full display, she would think, preening and glimmering and watching, always watching through half-lidded eyes, always snatching any hope of _her_ getting any coin for the evening. But when he turned, beads shining like sunlight glancing off the ocean, he would smile and she would smile back, hating it (loving it), _hating_ it; and she would go to him, every time, slipping the proffered gold into her boot and swallowing the bitterness, because she would see Scarlett in the edge of her vision, glaring, and she would love it, love him, if only for the night.

**ii. you steal all black and gleaming things, bravely tripping through your dark world**

Quick, dark eyes, clever fingers loosening purse strings as he smiles, dagger-sharp, and nods a greeting. He does it as effortlessly as breathing, like he was born to it. Perhaps he was, and now, Anamaria thinks, it's as necessary as breathing, too, because he can't stop, not now. Will says he doesn't need the extra gold, and he's right -- the Isla de Muerte stash has made the crew as rich as kings. Elizabeth narrows her eyes and says that he's no better than a common thief, and she's…not quite right, because if Jack Sparrow is anything, it isn't common. But he thieves because he loves it. Because it's only the rich who suffer, and, apparently, _that's part of the fun, part of the point and purpose, young missy_. Anamaria's been eavesdropping on their arguments, you see, one of _her_ natural-born talents. Skin dark as pitch, she can slip into shadows and she can watch so that then she can see. She can see that Jack never keeps the gold, but drops it into a street urchin's grubby hand, a whore's nimble fingers, and he doesn't ask for anything in return, and they don't give. She can see that when Jack's eyes alight on something he _needs_, they glitter, magpie-bright, and he has it within a heartbeat. A flutter of a hand and then it's in his hair, on his fingers, looped around Will's wrist, or clasped around Elizabeth's neck. And they almost understand, the young ones, but not quite, because they never fail to throw a look of disapproval at Jack before accepting the gift. But they accept, they always accept, and perhaps that's enough.

**iii. the last pure dusky seaside sparrow**

When Will had once asked him whether he was born as Jack Sparrow, he had smiled, that strange inward smile that could have meant everything or absolutely nothing, and had said, _Aye, and that was thirty years ago or more_. Will knows that Jack is forty-five years of age. He knows that when cold, wet fog pours over the _Black Pearl_'s deck, Jack acquires a limp, the ghost of some long ago battle, and scowls at anyone who dares mention it. Now he realises that Jack Sparrow could have been born John Smith. He could have been born any number of names -- or none at all -- but he chose Sparrow. An irritating creature, really (Will snorts -- yes, that seems to suit him fine), always darting just out of reach (that too). The sparrow was of British roots, but Will isn't so sure about Jack: his skin is sun-baked and tar-smudged to the point of being nearer Anamaria's colour than Will's. The head-tilt, yes; the assessing gaze, certainly. And flight, of course. If Jack were to wish for any gift, Will would think it to be the gift of flight, because sailing the _Black Pearl_ was as near to it as you could get, wind snapping past as you scud across steel-edged waters that reflect the storm-tossed skies.

**iv. slide across the deep sea's bitters**

The bird was a right strange one, true enough, and big, too, 'cause it must've been, what, ten feet across its wings' tips? Jack was the first to see it hobbling curiously across the _Pearl_'s deck. I told him 'twas bad luck to have a gull on board, but Jack laughed and said it was nothing of the sort. 'Twas an awkward thing, moving like me old pa used to when he was on his last legs, and it looked right ugly, all damning eyes and gnashing beak. None of us dared go near it, not even Jack, we weren't none of us fools, but we watched, and it surprised us. Because as awkward as it was on dry boards, was as graceful as it was in the sky. Not sure I breathed for a full minute, watching it jump, run, then soar upwards, upwards, chasing the clouds, and then downwards again, so fast I dared not believe. It followed the _Pearl_ for near on a month. We all became used to it; Jack, he loved it. _Silver lining, Gibbs_, he'd say. _Silver lining_. I weren't right sure what he meant by that, perhaps a remark on the bird's shining belly, but, soon after, we hit a calm. Our bird left us and we sat there for hours, days; I thought we'd go mad from the heat. Jack kept scanning the skies, for what I wasn't certain, but one day, a week, no, a fortnight later, the bird came back, and with it followed fair winds. The men cheered and Jack smiled, and I thought to myself, _Aye, silver lining_. We named the bird Jack.

**v. wise in his shrieking curve**

Cotton liked parrots. He liked _his_ parrot. A clever thing, it was, with eyes like steel and lightning, like sparks from the forge's fire. Cotton liked Jack Sparrow. He had that same look, blade-sharp and always secretly amused. Almost always -- in battle, Jack's eyes went as dark as gunpowder and that was when you were reminded -- _pirate_. Cotton's parrot liked Jack, and Jack respected the parrot in return. That counted for a lot because, aye, he was a wise man, Jack, though he hid it well behind his curiosities and Caribbean colours. The parrot never wavered, and neither did Jack, not in his love for his ship, not in his loyalty to his crew, and Cotton thought that more brave than anything, being able to trust after all he had heard about the marooning. Cotton wouldn't have survived such a business, what with having the bargaining ability of a bean, so he admired Jack for that, and he admired that he could laugh and joke and smile that gold-threaded smile one moment, and have his sword at your throat the next.

**vi. i love my spirit's veering flight **

Now that Elizabeth had taught him that bloody song, he never shut up. He was weaving all over the place, and she couldn't quite bring herself to sneer at him, not when he twirled and spun so gleefully, reminding her of the erratic flight of the swallows which used to nest under the roof of her old family home. They had, she remembered, terrible singing voices too. It would be laughable, if only he didn't look so _serious_ as he mulled over the lyrics. She was forced to hide a grin behind her hand, only when she did _that_ he would look at her, all dark eyes and wicked smile, and she would have to turn away and stare at the sea, reminding herself of how horrid he was, what with being prepared to use Will so awfully. He was a ghastly, bloodthirsty pirate, she reminded herself. Only he wasn't really, was he? He was of a different breed: a singing, dancing, cunning breed that she would have to watch both her own and Will's steps around, but which she could never bring herself to truly hate. Or, even, dislike. She had never really hated the swallow's song, either.

**vii. but striving to get higher **

Bill was thinking of Jack Sparrow when he died. On the seabed, he had nothing but fish and his own thoughts for company. He could feel madness biting at the fringes of his reasoning (like how the fishes had at first nibbled his fingers), boring holes in his once sound logic. Laughter would sporadically burble out between his lips, sending streams of bubbles racing towards the surface, one of those places Bill didn't dare to long for anymore. He had known Jack since they were both boys, racing through the streets (no water here, it was all down at the docks), stealing buns (no water here, either, thank God, he had always hated soggy pastry), staring at the ships that came in (now, here there _had_ been water). But before that, Bill remembered (or at least he _thought_ he remembered; he could barely trust his own mind now), he had hated That Bloody Jack Sparrow. Hated him. Hated him as he now hated Barbossa. (Except _did_ he hate Barbossa anymore? He wasn't sure. He couldn't quite bring himself to try to explore the gaping hole in his fragile web of memories that he thinks was the mutiny. But he still remembers Jack's eyes, dark and full of pain and hate, but not directed at Bill, because he didn't (couldn't? wouldn't?) look once at his friend. Not once. Perhaps Bill _was_ remembering. He stopped.) Hated him, but Jack had never hated Bill back, he would only laugh, give Bill's mother one of his most charming smiles, and bask in the luxury of her doting on him for the next week. She had got Jack on his first ship, and when he had returned to London glowing and laughing and older, Bill had been furious and equated him to one of those birds, one of them that stole other birds' nests and families. But soon enough, Jack introduced Bill to the sea. He had never looked back, and although he would have liked to have blamed Jack, he could never bring himself to leave, even as his wife (Lucy. That he _could_ remember.) and his son (William. That too.) wasted away on the shore.

So that's how Bill came to be thinking about Jack Sparrow when he -- gasped, because quite suddenly he could _feel_, and he was choking, drowning, and then there was a sharp, shocking pain that fired inside his chest, twisting and cramping as he gurgled saltwater. He struggled reflexively, not understanding the explosion of sensation, the sudden crush of ocean on top of him, pressing so hard he thought he might burst, and then it was all gone, burning to white.

**viii. flashed ahead of creation**

Ten years of being tied to the curse had changed them all, but it hadn't changed Jack Sparrow. Aye, he was different in looks, hair glittering with more charms, mouth gleaming with more gold. He was different in more essential ways, even, what with his eyes being several shades darker, several decades older. But he hadn't _changed_, not really. He still had lightning-quick thinking, thoughts working fast enough to rival the captain, always (_almost_ always) one step ahead. Ragetti had once seen a hummingbird, down Brazil way, and that's what he'd thought of when he first saw Jack Sparrow. Mind working ten to the dozen, even when he appeared still; plans so absurd they made the mind spin. Ragetti had liked Jack Sparrow, had thought him as full of life as anyone he'd ever met, but he weren't foolish enough to think him invincible. He could be mutinied against; he could get shot, injured. Cut him and he'd bleed, though when the captain had done _that_ Ragetti had looked away. He thought bitterly of it now, and something had changed -- ten years had taught him to hate Jack Sparrow. Pintel was right: if it weren't for Sparrow, none of them would've been cursed. He hated the bastard, but that didn't stop him from admitting that he was brilliant.

**ix. quoth the raven, "nevermore."**

The shot was wasted. Jack Sparrow had been carrying that pistol for ten cursed years and he had wasted his -- Pain. He could feel blood dribbling down his chest; he could feel threadbare cloth beneath his fingers. Jack watching him, hair the colour of ravens' wings, eyes the same, the same colour as the _Pearl_, flat but not mournful, no, hard and unforgiving. But by the powers, he didn't want forgiveness. He wanted to live and he wanted to bury his shot deep into Jack Sparrow's heart. But the pistol was gone, slipping out of his numb fingers -- and he could _feel_ they were numb, this wasn't the nothingness of before. He was falling, falling back onto sharp gold filigree. And he thought he heard cawing, three harsh notes, a crow or a raven, and if he had the breath he would have laughed as he felt the apple roll from his grasp.

**All these are what bird is**

**All these are as birds are**

**For whatever the bird is, is perfect in the bird. **


End file.
